


a syllable of tenderness and fear

by varnes



Series: you and me and the ghosts make three [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Psychic Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15847491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varnes/pseuds/varnes
Summary: The problem is that Shane is from the midwest. They don’t talk about feelings in Schaumburg. They talk about the weather and Chicagoland gang warfare and who in the county has the best backyard hockey pond in the winter. That’s it. That all they’re interested in.Shane thinks maybe it’s like exposure therapy. You ease your toe in, then your foot, then the rest of you. Surely talking about your feelings with your ... television co-host was the same.Or:I’m a believer inyou,Shane thinks, but has the good sense not to say on camera.





	a syllable of tenderness and fear

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE! i tried to write praise kink pornography instead got a 5,000 word treatise on shane madej’s complex inner landscape and midwestern cultural norms, so, that’s fine.

“We’ve got big news on this Post Mortem,” Shane says, “which is that I now believe in ghosts.”

“Wait, _what_?” Devon asks, her head appearing from behind the camera.

Shane shrugs, spreading his hands out wide and turning his palms up from where they’re lying on the table. “Yep. I am a Boogara now. The old Shane is dead; long live Ghost Shane. I’m on board.”

Ryan is staring at him, jaw a little loose. He still looks so surprised sometimes, when Shane mentions believing, and it’s honestly a little irritating. Ryan’s watched hours and hours and hours of them on tape. Ryan knew all that time that Shane was, frankly, embarrassingly ensorcelled by him, and still it takes him by surprise that him saying, “I see ghosts,” is enough evidence for Shane.

“I mean, to be clear, the spirit box is still bullshit,” he adds quickly, before Ryan can get any ideas. “I do not think the demons are out there ordering apple taters.”

Devon, TJ, and Mark are all staring at him. Ryan is grinning so big it makes his eyes bug out a little.

“You hear that? I was right all along,” he crows, turning to look at the camera, his whole body vibrating. Shane feels -- a little overwhelmed, honestly, about how happy he is, about how easy it’s been to make him happy, the past few weeks. “Shane Madej is a believer in ghosts.”

 _I’m a believer in **you**_ **,** Shane thinks, but has the good sense not to say on camera.

\--

Getting possessed had felt like -- being two bodies in one sleeping bag, elbows everywhere, knees where knees didn’t belong. He’d been able to hear Bernard’s thoughts, but they weren’t _words_ , really, just impressions of things, visions. He’d seen himself, but like, himself in old-timey clothes, and Ryan in a fedora, which was a truly scarring image that was going to haunt his sexual fantasies forever.

Shane could have gone a lifetime without having real proof that Ryan “Night Night” Bergara was basically a real fucking person, because now he gets a boner every time he drives past a Party City and sees a 1920s gangster costume on a mannequin.

But Bernard had been, just ... _full_ of feelings. It was more feelings than Shane was used to experiencing in a week, and all of them at once, joy and surprise and the desperate, desperate, desperate need to touch Ryan. At least that part wasn’t ... _new_ , exactly, though usually Shane was pretty good at keeping it shoved down where he wasn’t always accessing it.

It had been so much, _too_ much, being that close, his hand tangled in Ryan’s stupid hair, their noses close enough to touch, and Shane had panicked and shoved and gotten himself back again, because if someone was going to make out with Ryan in Shane’s body it was gonna goddamn well be fucking _Shane._

“The comments are out of control,” Ryan says, eyes on his phone. Mr. Whiskers is curled up in his lap munching on a taco, which is still the weirdest fucking thing Shane has ever seen. Shane can’t talk to him, or see the ghost in him, or whatever, but now that he _knows_ , it’s like ... incredibly obvious that Mr. Whiskers is at best an extremely weird cat and at worst literally possessed by a stoner kid really obsessed with Taco Bell. “About half these people think you’re kidding, and half of them think you’re possessed. Some of them think I seduced you, which -- I mean, isn’t _wrong._ ”

“Ryan Bergara: Paranormal Temptress,” Shane laughs. His feet are stretched out the entire length of Ryan’s couch, crossed at the ankle in his lap. “Maybe you should stop editing out all the parts of the episodes where apparently I’m just gazing at you like a lovestruck virgin. That’ll really show ’em. Hashtag exposed, baby.”

Ryan flushes, sort of, his shoulders shifting up half an inch. This is something lovely and surprising that Shane has discovered, over the course of the past couple of weeks: all he has to do is say, plainly, how much he cares about Ryan, how strongly he prefers him to almost everyone else, and Ryan’s whole body reacts.

“Shut up,” Ryan mutters, looking pleased and embarrassed all at once.

“I shan’t,” Shane answers, delighted. “I’m just callin’ it like it is. Me and all the ghosts are staring at you constantly. You may recall I had to literally fight one off so he couldn’t get to you first.”

Ryan puts the phone down, glaring. “ _Shane_.”

“What? That’s a real thing that happened. I know, because I was there.” Ryan squirms, a little. Shane makes a show of not looking, just keeps scrolling through his phone. “He tried to lay down the moves, before I’d gotten the chance. Unacceptable. Absolutely untoward. I ain’t scared of no ghost.”

“You didn’t _ghostbust_ Bernard,” Ryan says, but his voice is more strangled than exasperated. Shane is learning the difference. He never went back to watch the tapes -- to see the times that he missed Ryan looking back at him -- because now that he knows, he wants to learn it on his own. “Bernard was nice. He was trying his best.”

Shane looks up. “He stole my _face_ ,” he said. “And my body. And my girl! That’s three counts of ghost felony and I won’t stand for it.”

“Your _girl_?”

“Well, you know. It’s how the phrase goes. It’s society that’s heteronormative, Ryan, not me.”

Ryan barks out a laugh. Shane wants to taste it, and he’s allowed to, these days. So he puts his phone aside, hauls himself up onto his knees on either side of Ryan’s lap, and does. He’s taller than Ryan, obviously, but he’s 80% leg, so sitting like this, the difference isn’t as bad as it might have been if his torso were long instead. Ryan is thick, anyway, wider than Shane and more sturdily built; Shane can settle on his thighs and not worry about crushing him.

Ryan’s arms come up around his middle, hauling him in. He’s surprisingly game for someone Shane is pretty sure had never kissed another man before Shane.

“Perfect,” he mumbles against Ryan’s mouth, just to hear the catch in his breath. “Bernard knew. I knew. Well done, Team Guys-With-Shane’s-Face.”

“Knew what?”

“How -- fucking _excellent_ you are,” Shane tells him, pulling back far enough to watch the words hit, to watch Ryan’s face scrunch up, his smile wide and embarrassed. He buries his face in Shane’s neck, which on the one hand obscured Shane’s view, but on the other nets him Ryan’s mouth biting down on his collarbone, so altogether Shane’s calling it a victory. “World’s best ghost hunter. World’s greatest detective.” He pauses. “Awful psychic, though. I mean ... really, really bad, man.”

Ryan huffs out a laugh, and pinches Shane’s side. “Fuck you,” he mumbles against Shane’s skin, without heat. “I’m a great psychic.”

Shane folds immediately, just to watch Ryan’s nose wrinkle. “Yeah. The best one in the whole Buzzfeed network, for sure.” He tucks his nose behind Ryan’s ear and bites gently at his earlobe. “But my favorite in the _whole world_.”

He says it like a joke, putting a flutter in his voice at the end, but Ryan’s shoulders get tight and he turns his face away. For a second Shane thinks he’s upset, but then he notices the very still way that Ryan is holding himself, the way the tips of his ears are dark.

 _Ohhhh_ , Shane realizes with a shot of glee. _Oh, it’s a_ sexy _thing._

“O- _ho_ ,” he cries, completely, totally unable to keep the delight out of his voice. “ _Ry_ an.”

“Shut up,” Ryan mumbles. “Shut _up_.”

Shane takes Ryan’s wrists in his hands and drags them off him, pressing them into the couch. Ryan tests his grip a couple of times, then meets Shane’s eyes, almost questioning.

And suddenly --

Suddenly Shane isn’t teasing anymore, isn’t just delighting in saying pretty things to make Ryan squirm. Suddenly he wants to say everything he hadn’t, wants to stamp it on Ryan’s skin, wants to hold him down so he can’t slip away or get distracted or be pulled away by ghosts or -- or the fucking -- Buzzfeed Unsolved: Sports Conspiracies team.

 _Oh good, it’s a sexy thing for me too,_ Shane thinks, almost distractedly. Well, that was nice. Matching kinks. They should put it on merch.

He thinks about Ryan saying _you looked at me but never_ did _anything,_ and _maybe you’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk_.

Ryan tugs at his wrists again, but Shane tightens his grip, and he stills. Shane can feel his dick straining in his sweatpants, and he shifts against it, enough that Ryan’s whole body pushes forward, hungry. He settles his wrists, though. He lets Shane hold him there.

“It was worth the risk,” he murmurs, kissing him once, firmly, and then pulling back just far enough that Ryan couldn’t reach him, even when he brought his head up off the couch. He seems to understand that he’s not supposed to answer, that Shane is on a roll, because he doesn’t complain, just keeps his eyes on Shane’s mouth. “Of course it -- fucking ... _look_ at you.”

He breaks off, frustrated. Now that he’s not joking, everything he wants to say gets crowded in his mouth. Everything is laced with jokes, with his stupid odd syntactical turns of phrase, with the tone he gets when he’s saying what he means as if he doesn’t. He snaps his mouth shut, not willing to say any of it unless it comes out just right.

“Shane,” Ryan murmurs, voice tender, voice as soft as it’s ever been.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shane grumbles, dropping his head to Ryan’s shoulder.

“I’m _tryin_ , man,” Ryan jokes, tone appeasing. He chuckles and gently tugs his wrist free, bringing his arms up around Shane’s shoulders and running a line with his fingers down the length of his spine.

Shane laughs. He doesn’t raise his head. “I don’t know why it’s so hard,” he says. “There’s so much -- I like saying it. I like watching you hear it. I don’t know why -- ”

“Shane,” Ryan interrupts. His eyes are crinkled. He looks so fucking fond that Shane can’t look at him head on. “It’s okay. You don’t have to -- you don’t have to.”

 _I want to_ , Shane thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he presses his mouth against Ryan’s and gets his hands under Ryan’s t-shirt and pushes it up, insistent, until Ryan raises his arms and lets it get tugged up and off.

 _I want to,_ Shane thinks, as he drags his mouth against Ryan’s shoulder, his collarbone, his nipple, his hip.

 _I want to_ , Shane thinks, as he tugs his sweatpants down and takes Ryan in his mouth.

 _I want to,_ Shane thinks, listening to Ryan say his name, and say his name, and say his name.

\--

Here’s the thing: Shane is determined. Ryan likes it, and Shane likes it, and he’s been told by literally every significant other he’s ever had that he needs to get better at having real conversations, so this is a golden opportunity for self-improvement, really.

The problem is that Shane is from the midwest. They don’t talk about feelings in Schaumburg. They talk about the weather and Chicagoland gang warfare and who in the county has the best backyard hockey pond in the winter. That’s it. That all they’re interested in.

Shane thinks maybe it’s like exposure therapy. You ease your toe in, then your foot, then the rest of you. Surely being sincere to your ... television co-host was the same.

Your psychic, ghost-busting television co-host. Regular stuff.

Anyway, Shane is acutely grateful that Ryan is a terrible psychic, who can’t read minds and can only barely see ghosts, because it gives him space practice by thinking, consciously and carefully, what he can’t yet say.

 _There isn’t anything about you that I don’t like,_ he thinks at Ryan in the kitchen at work, watching him put a truly disgusting amount of sugar into his coffee. _Even the things that I find highly irritating are precious to me._

He feels wretchedly uncomfortable even thinking it, can feel a blush high on his cheeks that he disguises by taking a long sip of his tea.

He tries again when they break during post-mortem so that Mark can adjust the lighting. Ryan hefts a box full of old books from set to make room for another lamp and Shane thinks, _I like how strong you are_. _I like that you can move me around. I like when you come in from a run, and you’re sweating, and you smell like the bakery you stretch outside of. I like that you trust your body to do what you ask it to._

And again when Ryan is sitting across from him at dinner (“Chipotle,” Ryan had laughed wryly. “Romantic.”), shoveling a burrito into his mouth: _your love of spicy food is perturbing and you have the palate of a college student and I’d eat a thousand Carolina Reapers for you._

In the car: _you are always so careful with the world and everyone in it._

On location in Arizona: _I have never wanted to make someone smile the way I want to make you smile, always, all the time, at everything_.

At Ryan’s apartment: _I never needed proof that ghosts were real because I never cared if ghosts were real, I just wanted to hang out with you. You could tell me you were a leprechaun and I’d hold out my hand for gold._

He glances over at Ryan, after that one, just to make sure he hasn’t suddenly gotten good at being a psychic and won’t hold this promise against him. But Ryan is busy being irritated while listening to a ghost; Shane knows this because he gets this expression on his face when he does it, looking into middle distance and twisting his mouth a little to the left.

“I’m absolutely not going to do that,” he announces. “Too big an ask, dude. _Way_ too big. That’s a _felony._ ”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “We doin’ crimes now?” he asks. “Ghost crimes? Are we gonna be the Crime Boys, airing episodes of _Unsolved_ from prison?”

“She wants me to burn her house down,” Ryan tells him, sounding aggrieved. He glares at the space next to Shane where Shane assume the ghost is. Ryan says that the ghosts like him, that they’re more clearly outlined when they’re near him and can communicate more clearly. Shane assumes it’s because he’s been possessed before, or something. Leftover ghost mojo. It makes Ryan’s life easier, so he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t even find it particularly spooky; he can’t sense them or see them or feel them, so what does he care if they want to cuddle? “Tell her we’re not doing it.”

“We’re not doing it,” Shane parrots, supportively. “I guess we’re not gonna be the Crime Boys.”

There’s a pause while the ghost says something, and then Ryan throws up his hands. “You can send me as many pictures of your house as you want, lady. I’m not doing it. ... What is _that_? ... No. _No_. Stop asking for weird shit!”

He turns to look at Shane with his mouth set in the way that Shane has come to understand means “I’m ignoring the ghosts now,” folding his arms across his chest.

Helpless against a wave of fondness, Shane reaches out and presses his thumb to the corner of it. _Baby steps_ , he thinks. “I like watching you talk to them,” he says, heartbeat loud enough that he’s pretty sure Ryan can hear it. “You’re getting better at it. I like watching you be good at things.”

Ryan blinks. His eyes dart away, mouth twitching in that precious and embarrassed way of his. “Dude,” he laughs. “What the hell?”

Shane shrugs, dropping his hand. “I do,” he says. His heart slows down. That wasn’t so bad. “For what it’s worth, I think we could get away with arson. I think the Crime Boys could go places.”

“We’re not the _Crime Boys_ , stop using that name,” Ryan tells him sternly. “I barely like being the Ghoul Boys, but at least being the Ghoul Boys isn’t going to get me sent to jail, for God’s sake.”

“Well, not with _that_ attitude,” Shane jokes. “Where’s Ricky Goldsworth when you need him?”

Ryan laughs, pushing up onto his toes to kiss Shane once, and then brushing past him to the kitchen. He’s bickering with the ghost again: “Ask me for a normal thing. ... No, a _normal thing._ ... for Christ’s sake, at least something that’s not fucking _illegal_ \-- ”

Mr. Whiskers jumps into Shane’s lap, rubbing his head against his sternum. Shane knows this probably just means he wants tacos and is being ignored by Ryan, distracted as he is by their visitor, but he takes the affection anyway. He likes Mr. Whiskers. He thinks they’re kind of simpatico, because both of them like Taco Bell, and Ryan, and _Grand Design_ on Netflix.

He knows that Mr. Whiskers is a ghost, or -- is home to a ghost, perhaps better said. But he feels pretty calm about it. Ryan’s got it handled. Shane trusts him.

“I fucking hate ghosts,” Ryan announces, coming back with a bowl of popcorn and hurling himself onto the couch beside Shane, sending Mr. Whiskers scampering. “They’re the worst. They’re ALL THE WORST.” He raises his voice pointedly, keeping his eyes on Shane but obviously not talking to Shane.

“Maybe if you were nicer to them,” Shane suggests, just to needle. “Maybe if you didn’t draw such an unreasonably hard line at doing crime.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Fine, _you_ burn her house down,” he says. “I’m not faking an alibi for you. I’d sell you out for a twinkie, Madej.”

“ _I’d_ sell me out for a twinkie,” Shane reasons. “They’re designed to be irresistible. It’s basic food science.”

“That would have been a good Shane-on-the-street video, dude. _We asked strangers to betray each other for a Twinkie._ ”

“They weren't called Shane-on-the-street,” he laughs. “You make me sound like one of those local news segments where reporters ask kids about hip trends.”

Ryan laughs. “You out there in suspenders with a microphone -- ”

“Hey there kids, you got a minute to talk about why you all keep doing bath salts?” Shane jokes, doing a kind of old-timer voice and holding out an invisible microphone for Ryan. “In my day we just threw rocks at cars!”

“Threw rocks at cars,” Ryan wheezes. “Dude, what?”

“Yeah, that's how they had fun back in the day, before video games.”

“They just sat next to the highway and -- ?” He mimes throwing a rock. “Seems unsafe.”

“It was _very_ unsafe,” Shane agrees, then laughs at his own joke as he thinks of it: “Thank God we've moved on to the relative safety of bath salts.”

Ryan throws his bed back, laughing as he claps a hand to his chest. Shane is mostly content to watch him. He pets Mr. Whiskers, still chuckling, until Ryan’s laughter trails off and he nudges Shane's side with his elbow.

“Hey,” he says, “wanna bone?”

“Yes, but you gotta put Mr. Whiskers in the bathroom first. He already knows too much about my sexual proclivities,” Shane answers, and drags Ryan, laughing again, onto his lap.

\--

About two weeks later, Shane comes over to Ryan’s apartment to find him sitting cross-legged on his bed, locked in a intense psychic conversation with his cat. Shane drops himself on the foot of the bed, all his limbs folding up like a jacob’s ladder. In the mess of all that has happened, ghosts have up until this part been ... almost forgettable, really.

Honestly, the fact that he can’t see or sense them has kind of put a dampener on the whole thing. Not to be technical about it, but it kind of feels like he was still more right than Ryan: sure, maybe ghosts are real, but they certainly aren’t turning flashlights on and off.

“We gotta exorcise Mr. Whiskers,” Ryan announces decisively, finally breaking eye contact with the feline in question. “You were right. He knows too much.”

Shane blinks. “This is a very normal relationship,” he says. “When I used to imagine what it would be like if you wanted me, this is exactly what I imagined.”

Ryan laughs, and the sound startles Mr. Whiskers enough that he rises and hops off the bed, smacking Shane’s face with his tail as he goes. Shane is like 85% sure it isn’t on purpose, because Mr. Whiskers, possessed as he is, makes for a pretty shitty cat. That is, Shane likes him, but he’s bad at _being_ a cat. He never seems to know where any of his limbs are, and he has _no_ concept of what he is capable of jumping on. Shane is pretty confident that he’s scared of mice.

“I’m serious, dude,” Ryan grumbles. “The stuff he’s been sending me lately, like -- he _knows._ I can’t live like this. But, like, I can’t kick him out, either. He’d die all over again out there. He’s the worst fucking cat, man.”

“Yeah, he’s not great,” Shane agrees. “Last weekend I saw him trying to use the microwave.”

“Holy shit, really? Did it work?”

“No, he wasn’t strong enough to push the buttons.”

“Oh, man. That’s just ... that’s sad. I feel like of bad now.”

“Well, he’s only been possessing a cat for a few months,” Shane points out. “Maybe he’s just not the fastest learner. Or maybe you die as you lived, and he’s _constantly_ stoned on ghost weed.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “There’s no such thing as _ghost weed_ , Shane.”

“How do you know? You ever tried to buy any?”

“Ghosts don’t have _hands_ most of the time, how are they going to hold a joint?”

“Maybe it floats!”

“Maybe it -- shut up, Shane.”

Shane grins. He’s beginning to think _shut up, Shane_ is Ryan’s fratboy version of _as you wish_ , which he finds incredibly, stupidly, almost painfully, charming. He lolls his head to look at Ryan, and let’s himself get caught. Ryan squirms a little, when he notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He lets Shane look.

Ryan’s agony about being seen, Ryan’s constant desire to be liked and wanted and around but deep discomfort with being _noticed_ , has always fascinated and bewildered Shane, who feels fairly neutrally about all of it. Shane likes people, by and large; he likes making them laugh; he’d rather be liked than not liked, all things being equal. But being a million-foot-tall weird kid must have desensitized him to standing out, or something, because he just doesn’t _worry_ about it the way that Ryan does.

But here Ryan is, placidly letting Shane notice him, not even fidgeting.

 _You look good,_ he thinks, but can’t quite make himself say plainly, yet. _You always look so fucking good._

“. . . But, anyway,” Ryan is saying, bringing Shane back down to earth, “I’m serious. Ghost Mr. Whiskers has got to go. It’s time.”

From the living room, Mr. Whiskers lets out a loud meow. Whether it’s in agreement or protest, Shane couldn’t say.

He nods peaceably, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the bottom lip of Ryan’s shorts. “Okay,” he agrees. “Sure. Why not. Let’s exorcise the cat.” He pauses for a moment, then meets Ryan’s eyes. “Uh, how do we do that?”

Ryan shrugs. “I’ll google it,” he says. “I’m sure it’s on WikiHow somewhere.”

\--

Mr. Whiskers isn’t happy about it. He keeps knocking over the candles and hissing at them. Ryan’s having a hard time seeing because of the visions Mr. Whiskers is sending, so Shane is left to try and finish the set up.

“STOP GIVING ME TACO BELL,” Ryan shouts, squeezing his eyes shut. “NOW IS NOT THE _TIME_ FOR _TACOS,_ MR. WHISKERS.”

Shane tries to keep his face expressionless. This is clearly an emotional moment for them. Still, there’s something inherently hilarious about Ryan facing off against a tiny, mangy grey cat who looks like he’s a thousand years old and has never seen a hairbrush, shouting about tacos.

Mr. Whiskers hisses again, and knocks the water bottle of holy water on its side.

“ _Shit_!” Ryan cries, lunging for it. “That’s the last of what Father Thomas sent me, fuck, _fuck._ Goddamnit, Mr. Whiskers, you son of a -- ”

“Hm,” Shane interrupts, having a thought. “Hey, Ryan. Do you still have the Ouija board from the Goatman’s Bridge?”

Ryan freezes. He looks at the overturned water bottle, and then at Mr. Whiskers, and then at Shane. “Babe, you’re a _genius_ ,” he announces, stamping a kiss on Shane’s mouth and clambering to his feet, socks sliding on the hardwood floor as he scrambles back to his room.

 _I like it when you call me babe_ , Shane thinks.

He looks at Mr. Whiskers. “I’m not, he’s just a really bad psychic,” he says. Mr. Whiskers gives a cat shrug and then plops onto the ground, covering his eyes with his hands. Shane reaches out to stroke his head sympathetically. It’s gotta be tough being a cat when you’re a dead person.

It would be tough being a cat if you were _any_ type of person, really.

Ryan re-emerges after several noteworthy crashing noises, Ouija board held aloft triumphantly. He slams it down onto the ground, unfolds it and drops the indicator on top, gesturing vaguely at it.

“There you go, asshole,” he tells Mr. Whiskers. “What the fuck do you want? And I swear to _God_ if you write tacos I am taking you to a kill shelter.”

“Yuh-ikes,” Shane sing-songs. “Sounds bad, Mr. Whiskers. I’d listen to the man, if I were you.”

Mr. Whiskers gives Shane a deeply unimpressed look, and then gets to his feet and bads to the board. He starts pushing the indicator around, which is -- really fucking weird to watch, actually.

“I,” Ryan reads out, “h-a-t-e ... t-a-c ... ”

He trails off. Shane rolls his lips inwards.

 _Do not laugh_ , he tells himself sternly. _Do not laugh. Do not laugh._

“What the _fuck_ do you mean, you hate tacos?!” Ryan cries. “You _only eat_ tacos!! It’s all you ever ask me for!”

I-a-m-a-c-a-t, Mr. Whiskers spells. I-h-a-v-e-t-o-e-a-t-w-h-a-t-y-o-u-g-i-v-e-m-e.

“Oh my god,” Shane says, unable stay quiet. “Ohhh--hohooooo, man.”

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan snaps. He looks embarrassed. “Fine. Okay. Fine. I mean -- that’s -- whatever. If you didn’t want tacos, why the hell did you keep sending me to Taco Bell?”

m-y-b-o-d-y.

“Your body what?”

i-s-b-u-r-i-e-d-b-e-h-i-n-d-t-h-e-d-u-m-p-s-t-e-r.

Ryan blinks.

“Oh shit,” Ryan says, surprise evident in the long slide of his vowels. “You want me to dig up your body? I don’t think ... I’m like, pretty sure that’s illegal.”

Mr. Whiskers lets out a long, tired meow.

c-a-l-l-t-h-e-p-o-l-i-c-e-r-y-a-n.

Ryan looks at Shane. Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes it open, handing it over. Ryan stares down at it and then at Mr. Whiskers. “If I do this, are you gonna disappear?” he asks, voice devoid of all the combative stubbornness from earlier.

Mr. Whiskers sits on his haunches and raises his front paws in almost a shrug. yes-i-t-h-i-n-k.

“Do you want ... I mean, is there anything you want to say or do before I do it, then?”

Shane can’t keep from reaching out to squeeze Ryan’s forearm, because of course Ryan would ask, of course Ryan would _think_ to ask.

 _Soft and strong,_ Shane thinks. _Your heart is so so so so big._

Mr. Whiskers leaves the Ouija board and nudges up against Ryan’s hand to be pet. He purrs quietly, then sits down and shakes his head and waits.

Shane releases Ryan’s arm and holds out his hand, palm up. Ryan takes it, twining their fingers as he dials.

\--

The new Mr. Whiskers kind of sucks.

“He doesn’t _suck_ ,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “He’s just -- a cat.”

“He doesn’t like _Grand Designs_ ,” Shane whines.

“He’s _a cat_ ,” Ryan repeats.

Shane pouts anyway. Objectively he knows that Ghost Mr. Whiskers is at peace, but he kind of misses their old camaraderie. Regular Mr. Whiskers isn’t even scared of mice.

Ryan shakes his head, laughing. They’re on the _Unsolved_ set, having just finished filming; Shane had promised to be in something for As/Is so they’re waiting for his call time. Ryan’s taken to driving him home, which doesn’t seem to surprise anyone.

“Do you think they know?” Ryan muses suddenly. “Mark and Teej and them?”

Shane stills. Ryan hasn't seemed nervous about this part, hasn't seemed stressed about the idea of people finding out. But they haven't really talked about it, either.

“Would it be bad if they did?” he asks, careful and calm.

Ryan shrugs. “No. Maybe a little weird, just because -- it's a different thing, for me. You know. Sexually.”

“I know,” Shane says dryly. “I am _keenly_ aware.”

Ryan snorts. “Just ... am I supposed to, like. Come out to them?”

Shane blinks. “Uh,” he says. “I ... I think that’s -- up to you, buddy.”

Shane tries to remember all the videos about how to support your friends in new stages of exploring their sexuality, and all he can think of is a _You Can Play_ video that the Blackhawks did in 2009 that used to run on the local channel. He doesn’t think “if you can play, you can play,” is going to be super helpful, just in this moment.

Eventually he offers, “I never really -- came out? I just kind of ... was sometimes dating women and sometimes not. Nobody ever really said anything about it.”

“Hmm,” Ryan hums. “Yeah. It’s not like -- I mean, we work at _Buzzfeed_ , so. I’m not exactly worried about workplace discrimination.” He toys with the hem of his shirt, and Shane feels like, somehow, they’re having an even more important conversation that the conversation he initially thought they were having.

This is unusual, with Ryan, who stutters and panics and takes a roundabout way of getting to the point, but never directly avoids a conversation, and rarely tries to couch it as anything other than one it is.

“Do you ... want to come out?” Shane asks, a little helplessly, not sure what he’s being asked for.

“Do _you_ want me to come out?” Ryan returns. “I know it’s … I mean, I know that once it’s out there it’s like, _out there_ , and — and whatever happens will be, like … I don’t know, public? I guess?”

He’s so studious about not meeting Shane’s eyes or even looking at him that Shane gets it, very suddenly.

“Ryan,” he says, serious, more serious than Shane usually knows how to be. “Putting aside the idea that it would be at all okay for me to dictate to you when you were allowed to talk about your sexuality and to whom, that’s — I didn’t say anything before because I was scared of losing _you._ Not because I give a shit what people — because I didn’t know if you wanted -- Ryan. You are so _fucking valuable_ to me.”

Ryan’s eyes widen, jaw going a little slack. “I — shut up,” he says, like he thinks Shane is _joking_.

And just like that, it’s easy.

Shane regrets that it’s taken him this long, that he hasn’t been able to figure it out until now. But now it takes no effort at all to turn Ryan’s face so he has to look at him. “No. I want to say nice things to you. I want to tell you how much I like you. How brave I think you are, how admirable it is that you try so hard at everything, how you make me want to try hard, too.”

He spins so that he’s bracketing Ryan against the table so he can’t run away, so Shane can get through what he needs to say without interruption.

“You’re always so fucking _game_ , man,” Shane tells him, meeting Ryan’s eyes, not letting them go. “For everything, all the time, you just throw yourself into it -- you’re so fucking _brave_.”

Ryan huffs out a laugh, his hands coming up to fist in the sides of Shane’s shirt. “Dude, I’m scared like, all the time. It’s my whole brand.”

“If you’re not scared, you don’t have to be brave,” Shane points out placidly. He nuzzles at Ryan’s temple, then pulls back so he can look at him again. “You look good all the time, so good it’s hard to focus,” he says, floodgates open. “And you’re so focused, so careful, so _fucking_ smart and funny and _good_. You’re kind and you’re creative and it’s — I can’t always say what I mean but I want to be better at it, for you. So you know. So you don’t ever doubt it again.”

He breaks off, panting a little, exhilarated and exhausted at the same time.

After a long pause, Ryan’s face splits into a smile, wide and bright and so happy that it hurts Shane’s heart a little.

“I love you,” Shane says.

Ryan’s eyes are soft. “Yeah man,” he says. “Shane. I know.”

He kisses him, holding on tight, not letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> mr whiskers is dead! long live mr whiskers. come find me on [ tumblr](itsvarnes.tumblr.com)!


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